by Shea,Lisa
He muttered quietly to Roger, his voice low, but not low enough. “The wench certainly knows how to choose her admirers.”
Morgan leant forward slightly, drawing his attention with the subtle movement. “Are you sure you are ready for me? You can always back out now,” she teased gently.
Sean’s eyes flickered toward hers for a moment, then returned to consider the two men who stood over her. He addressed Oliver, his gaze steady. “You know how to get her home, I imagine, once she can no longer walk?” Morgan sensed a hint of probing in there, of Sean’s desire to know just how well she was acquainted with her two friends. She grinned. She had hooked this one almost too easily.
Oliver looked down fondly at Morgan, running a hand absently through his blond hair. “Oh, we will take good care of Morgan,” he agreed with a tender nod. “We are quite familiar with Morgan’s haunts and habits.” His mouth quirked. “Now as for you … you are staying at the inn, I hear?”
“Do not worry about me,” replied Sean absently, leaning back in his chair, sizing up the two men as if they were a part of the challenge before him.
Felix trundled over with a large wooden tray, five shot glasses apiece lined up down each side of it. He placed the tray theatrically on the table between the two contestants. Sean looked at the offering almost dismissively before giving an indulgent smile to Morgan. “Well then, I will go first,” he offered chivalrously. He took one of the glasses, downing it with a quick movement of his wrist. A cheer went up from his supporters. He then turned the glass over in the air and placed it firmly, upside down, at the center of the tray.
Morgan sat back for a moment, closing her eyes, fighting the urge to smile. Her friends would win good money tonight, but there was no reason to rush. She enjoyed the showmanship of the process.
She pouted her lips prettily, adding hesitation to her movements, acting as if she had suddenly realized just what a mess she had gotten herself into. She reached forward tentatively, taking the full glass in her hand, staring thoughtfully at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, she poured the liquid down her throat.
She closed her eyes as she did. As much as she could fake the tenuous hand movements, the trembling of the lips, she doubted she could hide the shine in her eyes as she drank the luscious ambrosia and felt it course down her throat, warming her. She made sure to give a little shudder before opening her eyes again. With a shaking hand the glass was turned over in the air and placed down on the table.
Felix raised his hands in the air. “One!” he announced with delight, and the crowd roared with pleasure.
Sean went glass by glass down the line, matching her at each step, and she watched with interest as his eyes began to betray his growing enjoyment of the liquid, the appreciation showing in his lips as he sensed the hidden layers of flavors. She knew he was watching her with equal interest, and she focused on the hesitation on her movements, giving the sense that she might give up at each stage, but somehow she managed to draw out the inner strength to keep going. His eyes flickered with surprise when, even after the fifth shot, she was able to put her glass securely down on the table.
Felix spun to the crowd. “Round Two!” Cheers and applause rang out on all sides. Sean scanned the crowd which clearly expected the contest to continue for quite a while, and after a moment he chuckled in appreciation. He picked up one of the smaller coins on the table, flipped it in his fingers a time or two, and then tossed it past her shoulder. Morgan had been gazing down at the table with a listless attitude, but out of habit she plucked the coin out of the air easily, and her eyes snapped with laughter when she realized she’d been found out.
She flipped the coin back to him with an amused grin. “All right, then,” she acknowledged in delight, her voice clear and rich. “Let us do this the straightforward way. I find it so much more fun when I face my challenges head-on.”
“You think you are a challenge for me?” asked Sean, his eyes brightening with interest, lingering on her lips for a long moment.
Morgan ran her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, and she watched with delight as his face flushed red with heat, as his breath drew in a ragged inhale. Her smile widened further as she basked in the reaction she had caused.
“I think I will be the one on top tonight,” she agreed throatily, her eyes sparkling.
“We will see about that,” murmured Sean, his voice going hoarse as she shifted slightly in her seat, as her curves moved and realigned.
There was a shadow across the table, and Felix was between them, setting down the wooden tray with a fresh set of five shots each. Sean looked at the line of mead, shaking his head, his eyes reflecting his admiration.
“I imagine a working hazard of being a waitress is building up a tolerance to alcohol,” he murmured to Roger, his voice rough. “Still, it will be a cold day in Hell when one of them can keep up with me.”
Roger’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “You have indeed honed drinking to an art form,” he agreed readily.
Sean’s eyes moved back to meet Morgan’s, to drift down her length appreciatively, taking in her ripe curves, her healthy strength. He gave a long sigh of relaxation. “Even if she does not last long, it will certainly be a pleasant distraction for us,” he mused to his friend.
Morgan held in a snort. Not last long indeed. The amused sparkle in her eyes did not dim as they went through glass five … glass six … Sean seemed almost enthralled by her deep brown eyes, by the ruby red of her lips as her tongue danced out to wet them. She leant forward to take glass seven, making sure the swell of her breast was tantalizingly near. He shook himself, renewing his focus on the contest at hand.
“Round Three!” roared out the room gleefully. Sean gave a toast to his temptress with his next glass, his eyes shining, apparently honestly impressed. She chuckled again. Perhaps he did not know many women who could have lasted this long. Her smile grew wider. On the other hand perhaps none of his drinking companions back home had a form as she did. She gave a glance down the length of her body. She had dressed well for tonight’s festivities. The red dress curled deliciously along her shoulders, drawing close at her waist. Her dark hair cascaded down her torso in thick curls.
She brought her gaze back up to meet Sean’s and she grinned as she saw him wavering slightly, as he blinked again to keep his eyes in focus. It had begun.
She leant forward for glass number thirteen and her hair fell down across her face in a wave. Christian moved forward with comfortable ease to brush it back for her, and let his hand rest on her shoulder for a moment in a casual gesture of familiarity. Laughter bubbled up within her as Sean’s eyes flared with jealousy, as he bit back his emotions with visible effort. Already she had him hooked well. She held his gaze through glass fourteen … fifteen …
“Round Four!”
Morgan could see in his movements that the liquor had taken a hold of him. He narrowed his eyes as if the room was beginning to shimmer. His body weaved slightly; he seemed to be riding on a ship at sea. There appeared to be two sets of each glass before him now, and he concentrated hard to determine which one to pick up. The crowd was continuing to chant the number, giving a roar of approval as each glass was brought to the lips, downed, and placed upside down on the table.
“Seventeen!”
Sean reached out carefully for his eighteenth glass. By his slow hand movements she would have almost guessed that this one was heavier than the previous. He watched with focus as he brought it toward his lips. His tipped it up with a quick motion.
The liquid rolled down his throat, and she saw it in his eyes, the connection they shared, that the mead was bringing him a smooth oblivion, an erasing of the past, the focus on now. She felt guilty, as if she had glimpsed into his soul, into a private haven.
He looked at the empty glass in his hands for a long while, appearing to marvel at its texture. There was a small air bubble in its base, a spherical drop of perfection, and he was entranced by it.
Then he
gave himself a small shake, as if remembering that there was something he had to do. He had to put it down on the table. He reached forward with it, his attention a pinpoint focus, watching as the glass approached the table, its edges wavering … wobbling …
The edge of the glass came in contact with the table, and it seemed he found he could not bring it upright. His eyes strove to focus, but his hand slipped. The glass tumbled on its side, rolling in a long circle.
“Ohhhh!” groaned the crowd, half of the voices tinged with panic, the other half in greedy delight. There were hushing noises from all sides as countless pairs of eyes turned to look at Morgan.
Morgan watched the glass make its lazy circle, bringing her eyes slowly back up to the man sitting before her.
God’s teeth, he was handsome.
His thick, lustrous hair lured her to run her fingers through it. His physique was solid but lean, like a racehorse built for speed. Desire built up within her as a tangible force, and his eyes held an answering kindle as he read her look. To think he had almost made eighteen shots … she shook her head. There was work still to be done. Enough time for play later.
She reached her hand out, proud that it remained fairly steady. She had never had to drink eighteen before, never been pushed to this limit. She would not let down her friends, not destroy her reputation. She focused on the glass, on lifting it carefully, on bringing it to her lips. The release of the alcohol, its potent power, thrilled through her as it always did. She kept her eyes open this time, letting Sean see the pleasure it brought her, her comfortable familiarity with its effect. She saw the answering knowledge in his eyes, that he drew the same solace from its deep pools of darkness. She took down every last drop, then with a firm hand she reached out with it.
She placed the glass solidly, upside down, at the center of the table.
The place erupted into cheers, yells, curses, and congratulations. Morgan found herself hoisted up onto Christian and Oliver’s shoulders, paraded around the room as a conquering hero. Money changed hands with laughing good nature as Felix cleared away the glasses and began his last call for the night. Morgan glanced out the window and realized to her surprise that a soft pre-dawn light was beginning to spread across the town. It was later than she had thought!
Her soldiers deposited her down by the table again, and Sean slowly stood. He held out a hand in friendly defeat.
“That was well played, Morgan,” he commended with a smile. “I have not seen it done better. You have my congratulations.”
Morgan put her fingers in his palm, watching as he lowered his head to her hand, brushed his lips sensually over the skin of her knuckles. An answering tremor ran through her, and she gave a soft chuckle. Two could play that game. Her thumb was on the underside of his hand – she ran it slowly, seductively along his skin, her lips pursed with promise. A flush of heat rose into his face, and his grip tightened on her fingers.
Christian pulled her back against him. “All right, Morgan,” he joked, his red curls bouncing around an even more rosy face.
Oliver chimed in with a low voice. “Time to get you home, Morgan, or your parents will tan my hide.”
Morgan smiled. “Even worse, my father will not deliver your new sword for another month in punishment,” she teased, allowing her fingers to slip free from Sean’s grip, allowing herself to be drawn along by her friends. Together they made their way out into the lightening world, weaving their way along the village’s one main road. Here and there they saw other of the bar’s patrons making their way home.
They got to the sturdy oak door of her house in only a few minutes, and Morgan gave each man a warm hug in farewell. “I will see you at the keep tomorrow,” she promised with a wink. She glanced up at the gentle tracery of light drifting across the sky. “Oops, I suppose I mean today,” she amended. “Keep the fires warm for me!”
Christian nodded. “We will,” he vowed with heat.
She gave a wave, then turned to move along the lavender-lined side alley of her house toward the back fence.
Gazing in a low window, she could barely make out her mother, a mug of ale near to her hand, sprawled on the bench in the main room of the forge. Her father was sitting on the sturdy side chair, his head down against his chest, snoring in steady rhythm. Morgan had no interest in waking the pair and being drawn into whatever fight had consumed them this evening.
She grabbed the ladder from its nook, laid it up against the side of the house, and scrambled nimbly up to her bedroom window. Once inside, she gave the ladder a kick, sending it back into its corner with a soft thud. She waited a long moment, but there was no answering sound from below.
Chuckling with pleasure, she made her way over to her bed, flinging herself onto it with satisfaction. She had won. She had taken down and bested a Londoner. Now there was an achievement to be proud of!
Her mind went back to that last glass of mead, the moment when she had allowed Sean a glimpse into her soul, when she had felt a connection with him that went beyond words, beyond any man she had ever met before. Her heart kindled …
She pushed the warmth away, rolling herself under her blankets, pulling them up over her head with a firm tug. Tomorrow he would be gone, and she would return to her carefree life. No man alive had yet put the yoke on her, and with God as her witness, no man ever would.
Chapter 2
Morgan blinked her eyes wearily in the bright sunshine, the familiar throbbing sensation echoing through her head. She sat up slowly, instinct built over years causing her to move with cautious, gentle motions. A green pottery bowl containing crushed lavender was sitting on a small wooden table by her bed. She lifted a small handful of the flowers and tossed them into the pitcher of water alongside it. Carefully she poured out a full portion into a dented bronze goblet. She took it up in both hands and slowly drank down the brew, her headache lessening slightly as she did so.
She made her way wearily down the stairs, carrying her sword and cloak with her, leaving them in a pile by the front door. She was not surprised to find her parents in the same position she had left them last night. She rousted the kitchen fire back into life, then went into the back yard to gather a few eggs for a late breakfast. Soon she had three trenchers set out on the table along with three tankards of ale.
“C’mon, wake up,” she prodded her mother and father, moving them into groaning life. Their eyes barely opened as they made their way to the table, blinking against the sun as it streamed through the windows. The dust of the forge covered the floor; most of this level of her house was taken up by its large central fireplace and implements. Only a small corner in the back held the kitchen area, a square table, and a few benches for sitting.
Her father squinted at her. “When did you get home?” he growled, his thick, black beard holding a sprinkling of sawdust and lint. “Out at the pub again, I imagine,” he added, taking a large bite of his breakfast.
Her mother brushed her greying hair from her eyes with a weary hand. “Now, Asa, you let her be,” she sighed. “She is an adult and can very well go where she pleases.”
“An unmarried adult, Jocelyn,” pointed out her father between bites. “That means I am still responsible for her.”
Morgan rubbed at her brow. “I am responsible for myself,” she interjected grumpily, her headache beginning to throb into new life. “Can we just finish our meal without getting into this again, please?”
Her father harrumphed, but took a long drink of his ale, dropping into a surly silence.
Her mother looked up. “So you are going back to the keep today?” she asked with mild interest.
Morgan nodded. “Lady Donna needs me; she thinks she might ride out to Rowly to visit with a friend tomorrow. I will be heading out as soon as we are done with our meal.”
Her father’s voice mumbled up from his beard. “I still do not see why she needs a female bodyguard,” he huffed. “It is unnatural. The place for a woman -”
Morgan put her mug on the table wit
h a solid thunk. “Time for me to be heading out,” she interrupted, scooping the last bit of eggs from her plate into her mouth. She stood, moving around to give her mom a quick hug from behind, then offered a half wave to her father. She grabbed her items from the door as she went past them, closing the door firmly behind her. A fresh shaft of pain pierced her skull as the full force of the afternoon sun hit her. She half closed her eyes against the brightness, making her way around to the stables to saddle up her horse.
*
Morgan took in a deep, refreshing breath as she rode along the quiet dirt road, the low meadows stretching out in all directions around her. She did love her parents, but she wished by all that was holy that they could learn to get along better. She hoped, too, that someday they would accept her chosen path in life. She would certainly never marry. She had seen quite enough of what that sacrament led to. She was content with her life, with her flirtations and fun.
She jingled the leather pouch at her side and smiled with growing pleasure. She had quite a haul from her adventures in the town over the past few days. Maybe it would be enough for a new sheath for her dagger. Her current one was becoming a bit worn.
There was the noise of hoofbeat behind her, and she sat up, her hand falling automatically to the sword at her side. There were several newcomers in town this week, what with the harvest celebrations and all, and she had no doubt that one or two might consider her an easy target. She chuckled softly. As if any daughter raised by that bear of a man called her father would be meek and mild. She had been brought up amongst swords and daggers by a man who desperately craved a son. She had been taught weaponry from the time she was weaned from her mother’s breast.
She turned her steed sideways across the road, waiting patiently. This path led to one place only – the house of her mistress, Lady Donna. She knew no visitors were expected today. Whoever was following her had trouble on his mind.